


Blinded by Love

by SecondhandDemon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bargaining, Blackmail, Blindfolds, Demon Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face-Fucking, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Magic Cock, Multi, Name-Calling, Object Insertion, Original Fiction, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Magic, Spitroasting, Succubus, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 11:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16701574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondhandDemon/pseuds/SecondhandDemon
Summary: To save the lives of her lovers, a demoness may just have to pay with coin that they'd never willingly spend.Fortunately for her, she can make sure they never remember just how far she forced them to go.(Filthy, unrepentant porn.)





	1. Her Story - A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to write a fairly serious story about a barbarian winter elf conqueror and his dragon. I had a plotline all mapped out, several scenes carefully planned, and was looking forward to playing with a dragon who didn't quite understand how elves worked. 
> 
> Instead, I wrote this. I'm not sorry. 
> 
> Plenty of reference is made to several high fantasy tropes, but mostly it's just filthy, filthy porn.

The story is a simple one. Up in the frozen north there is a race of elves who cannot be hurt by the ice and the snow. Without the warmth of the sun to fill them with color, their hair grows pale and their eyes have faded from the jewel-bright shades that belong to other elven races. They hunt in deep winter, can walk on snow and leave no traces, and they live in deep caves or stone-built dwellings where they hold some of the greatest treasures of the ages, artifacts that date to the times before the first elf trod lightly over the earth. They are described by other elves as being a bit slow-thinking, for surviving long winters takes patience and careful planning. But they are dangerous also, because once stirred to anger they are just as careful in planning their retribution, which will be cruel, coldly calculating, and terrifyingly complete.

It came to pass that a great warrior of this people took into his heart a dragon and for the first time went outside his own lands and saw how far away the horizons stretched in every direction. But although the lands were rich and its people varied, he saw among them a disturbing trend to spurn magic and its creatures. He heard of dragons being hunted, of entire elven peoples enslaved, and men that cut down the trees where dryads lived. Although sickened, the northern elf resolved that these practices could not continue. 

The story says that he then spent many years preparing until he was no longer a young man. He built an army of his people, trained them to be soldiers, gathered supplies, and planned every possible detail of what was to be a broad campaign. It is whispered that he sought out the fae creatures who are less mortal even than the elves, relying on the word of his dragon to vouch for his character. He allied with the dryads, so that the trees would conceal his army where they could, so that they would never want for fruit or grain or herbs. He courted the nyaids, that they would not want for water, and what they found would not poison. The sylphs and other creatures of the air he spoke to also, that the words of his enemies would be carried on the wind itself to his ears.

When finally his army came down the mountainside, led by the ice-white warrior himself and protected by the magic of his dragon, none could stand against it. His soldiers called him the White Wolf, and where his howl could be heard kingdoms fell. 

Year by year his power grew, and year by year the lands he claimed were wider, far beyond the mountainside villages his people had once called their home. Some even claimed that the elves had lived so long in the ice and snow that Winter itself could not bear to part with them and so travelled along. Snow would fall before they came, marking out their path in wintery warning, and for many days ride in every direction people began to fear the heavy grey clouds that came before snowfalls. When the snow fell they would wait, and watch, and listen: and they would murmur to themselves the rhyme the bards spread, the simple warning: 

_ Cold wings of winter fly before the White Wolf. Flee, all sons of men, from the White Wolf.  _

 

This story is not entirely true. It had been purchased and paid for on a long ago winter evening before the army had ever marched. Anticipation can do more damage to an enemy than deliberate sabotage, and after the initial investment in wining and dining several bards, it had been free besides — the story was good enough that it spread itself. It was a brilliant tactic by a master tactician, the first story ever told about a man who, through his courage and ambition, his successes and subsequent ill fortune, was destined to become a legend. 

But this isn’t his story. It’s hers. It  _ could _ have been his story. Perhaps it  _ should _ have been his story. It was certainly  _ intended _ to be his story. But demons do not always go where they are bid or leave when they are asked to. Despite all intentions to the contrary, this is her story. 

And it starts in the past.

 


	2. Her Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demoness reveals the extent of her bargain and the full value of the men she protects.

 

“I would have a moment of your time before you sleep, Commander.” The voice seems to come from the shadows themselves and it is not one he ever expected to hear in this place and at this time. It is true enough that there are whores that follow every army and his has never been any exception, but they have never been so bold as to sneak into  _ his _ tent. Nor would he have expected such a cultured voice, deep and rich like a strong red wine, apt to leave a man dazed and heady from the taste of it. Whoever this woman is she need not scamper after an army on foreign soil for her coin; she ought to be a mistress for a fine lord, put up in style and kept rich from his gifts.

“I’m listening.” He does not much like the thought of her entering his tent without his knowing, but even he finds himself hoping — as he reaches for the lamp at his bedside — that her body matches the quality of her voice. If she  _ is _ just a whore he might well accept her offer even if she intends to try and cause him some harm. From most such harms he is well-protected and that sort of desperate seduction has a certain entertainment value he finds hard-pressed to discount. But when the tent fills with soft, warm light from the little lamp, a small grunt of surprise escapes him.

He had not expected her appearance to be able to  _ surpass _ the sound of her voice, but she succeeds beyond his idle imaginings. His gaze lingers on her full breasts, pushed up by the tightness of her dark leather vest and at any moment threatening to spill over if she takes a deep enough breath. Her wide belt accents a waist so slim he cannot help but wonder if he could hold his hands around its circumference and have his fingers touch. Her loose trousers are surprisingly feminine, made of a billowing material which seems to catch the slightest breath of air and push the fabric against her skin, outlining her body from first one direction, then another. There is a design embroidered on the trousers, black on black, swirling gracefully up from the hems and further highlighting the supple shape of her exquisite body. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders, not a single strand of it daring to lie out of place, not a bit of it curled or waved. It is a single fall of flawless darkness, like a short capelet made up of the stuff that lies between stars. 

For a long moment he allows himself to simply stare at her, to take in all of these little details and compile them into a single picture as he attempts to make sense of the sight. 

“Good,” she says, and breathes out so slowly that his eyes are drawn to the movement of her breasts. Her posture had changed as he uttered the words: where before she had stood on the opposite side of the tent, one delicate hand resting lightly on the back of a chair and watching him with perfect stillness, now she seems to breathe. For all the boldness she displayed with this intrusion, it is clear that she had not been counting on him to react to her presence with equanimity. She had no doubt been counting on his curiosity and his physical desire to preserve her long enough for him to listen, and he wondered if she knew he was more than intelligent enough to be aware of such tactics. 

Or did she see only what so many did? He knows he is large for an elf, broad shouldered and well-built, nothing like the waifs that he’s seen humans put into their stories or their art. The greater difference lies in coloration, for even in the dim light his skin would seem unnaturally pale to a human, carrying very little of the flush and blush common to that race. His hair is similarly drained of color, white in every strand save where the last two or three inches have been dyed a rusty reddish-brown. Having just blown out the lamps to sleep, he sits on the edge of the bed wearing little more than his scars, looking like nothing so much as a seasoned soldier with violence in his blood and not much else in his battered head. He is always astonished to find how few people realize that for him to have risen so high, so far, and so fast, he needed to use his head far more often than his fists. 

“You’re here to make the case for your companions, I assume?” He keeps his voice light and amused. He’d been surprised to find her here, alone and unafraid, but now that he’s seen her he knows why she has come. She is not just an elf, as he’d seen from the first glance, from the shape of her face and the distant perfume of magic he could feel like a warmth beneath her skin. She’s a  _ shadow _ elf, here in his tent at the heart of his army, approaching him on the eve of battle. On the evening of the same day when a pair of her kin — the first such he had seen in years — had been brought before him in chains. 

“Yes,” she says at once, without looking away, even though by the press of her lips she had not meant for him to know this quite so early in their acquaintance. How she had thought he would not know is beyond him; like the first two, she is shorter than he is by a good measure, with hair and eyes as dark as a raven’s wing and a body that seems delicate in comparison to his own. In the dim light of the lamp he cannot determine if her skin matches the swarthy shade evidenced by her kinsmen, who had enjoyed a far less genial audience. Unlike the two men, she seems to be in excellent health; her cheeks are round and soft, the curves of her body rich and inviting. While her clothing appears to be of equal make with theirs, her outfit is in excellent condition. It holds none of the dirt or road-dust which their leathers had shown, and certainly there are no signs of battle on her person. Indeed, the outfit offers little protection even from the elements, seeming instead to have a very different purpose.

The two shadow elves had been found by the scouts, worn dull and ragged by travel and hardship. The scouts had not believed their impossible story of exile from their faraway swampy homeland, and the claim that they’d come all this way wanting to join the White Wolf’s infamous army had seemed even more ridiculous. But they had been elves and not men and so they had been granted the dubious honor of an audience with the White Wolf himself. 

It had not gone as they had probably hoped. 

“Do you mean to convince me of their honesty and their great value as fighters?” He speaks Common with a crisp lilt to the words, quite different from the slight drawl in her voice. 

“I have no doubt that you will believe me,” she tells him firmly, “my concern is only whether or not your arrogance will prevent you from seeing their worth.” 

This is bold and presumptive enough that a laugh escapes him, deep and rolling, a sound which appears to take her once more by surprise. The look she gives him, head slightly tilted as if to inquire as to the nature of the joke, is unexpectedly endearing. He grins in response, pushing away from the furs piled high on his cot and standing, aware of just how frighteningly feral he looks with the lamplight playing over the pattern of his scars and causing his sharpened canines to gleam. He does not bother to try and hide the compliment his body begins to pay to her: if she’d wished to meet him when he was more appropriately attired, she ought to have come earlier. When she does not shrink away as he approaches, his grin only widens. “Oh? And what will you do to convince me?” 

“Not what you are expecting,” she says, and there is almost a smile on her face now, a barely perceptible curve of her full lips. She raises one hand to put her fingertips on his chest, a delicate touch as well as a request to come no closer. For the first time, he notices that she is wearing gloves: thin kidskin leather dyed black. Although more decorative than functional — they would not protect her hands if she meant to use a weapon, and they aren’t enough to keep her warm — they serve well enough to separate her from touching his skin in truth.

He doesn’t yet frown, but the deviation from the script is, indeed, not what he is expecting. Stepping back, he allows a long silence to stretch between them, during which he sweeps his gaze across her. The delicate boots of stark black leather, decorated with a bit of silver buckle, lead to the diaphanous pants, which so effectively convey the inviting curve of leg and hip. The belt which sits at her waist, holding no weapon or chatelaine but instead merely drawing the eye to her exquisite figure. The low cut of her vest which pulls the eyes inexorably to the lush swell of full breasts, the slender dip of her bare throat. 

"Really," he says, in a voice as dry as mountain ice. 

"Really," she says, and has the audacity to smile. "You know already that my men are what they say. You've seen their callouses and your dragon has smelled the magic on them. I know that you could use them .. if only you could trust them. The thought crossed your mind when they were first brought in, didn't it?" She steps away from him in a sudden swirl of graceful movement: a dancer's steps, not a fighter's.  Having stepped out of his immediate reach, she pauses and lingers by a bottle of wine that had been delivered with his dinner, which he swore he'd finished. She touches it, thoughtful -- and when she lifts the bottle, the rich red liquid pours into the goblet like something made of rubies. He stands still as she swirls the wine in the goblet, her expression reflecting a certain pleasure at the little trick. 

::Lorith?:: Although his expression remained amused, the certainty with which she'd spoken caused his hackles to rise. For all the wards he wears, he knows better than anyone that for every spell there is a counter. But if it was a spell at work that so accurately predicted his thoughts, there was one and one only who would know: his finest mage, his closest companion, the creature whose power had helped catapult him into his current position of notoriety. 

As dragons went, Lorith was not as the tales described his kind. He -- like Lapis himself -- was from the Northern mountains, birthed and molded by the ice and snow. He had somehow spent the larger portion of his life far from the mortal races, and had in fact encountered the elf when his curiosity regarding mortals drew him into the territory of the commander's little village. Despite the considerable handicap of the dragon’s ignorance, language had been little barrier for them; the Binding of a dragon was far more thorough than the ties that bound mortals to one another. It was not just their hearts and their souls that reached for one another, inexorable, but their  _ minds _ : he had but to think of his dragon to know where he was, and strong thoughts could be ‘heard’ by either party in a way that seemed to transcend language. 

::Interesting,:: the dragon says with surprise, and the elf can feel his curiosity; there is the sense of a serpent uncoiling, of a serpentine head lifting in darkness and focusing its gleaming eyes on a point in the distance. ::I don’t think you have anything to fear. You are protected from her sort of magic, but she isn’t trying to cast any. If anything she’s holding back.:: 

Almost no time passes as the dragon has shares this insight with him; time enough only for the woman to take a small swallow of the wine and then hold out the goblet. He knows why she takes that first swallow -- to show that it is safe -- but he has not made it to Commander by being the sort of man that trusts his senses alone. He sends a questing thought to his dragon as he steps cautiously closer to take the goblet from her hand, and braces himself for Lorith to push magic through him. Although he'd been disappointed once upon a time to find that his dragon knew little about how to utilize his size and his strength as a warrior, he has long since come to appreciate having a powerful spell caster at his beck and call. 

A chill courses down his arm, feeling as if it comes from somewhere in the core of his own body: it tingles as it hits the palm of his hands, and a barely visible sheen of frost appears on the rim of the goblet. It disappears as he brings the goblet to his lips, but he does not drink until he feels the dragon whisper in his thoughts, apparently amused by the entire charade. 

::Just wine.::

A good wine, too, he realizes with the first swallow. Better than the vintage that had originally been in the bottle. 

She seems to be waiting for something from him, so he speaks up after that first taste, his tone suggesting that he is no more impressed with her speech than he is with her little twist of magic. “I admit that I thought they might be dangerous if they didn’t look so much like whipped curs, but a spy I can’t trust isn’t even worth pissing on.” Another swallow, and although he watches her closely she does not flinch at such vulgarity despite her ladylike appearance. 

“But if you  _ could _ trust them, you would find a use for them?” She asks the question quite seriously, all flirtatious smiles set aside, and the look on her face is the stare of a woman determined to press her case until she receives some answer or another. So he stalls; he takes another swallow, pretending to savor the taste. Her teasing guesses had been perfectly accurate: even covered with mud, in tattered clothing and battered all to hell, he’d seen the two shadow elves for what they were at a glance. The taller one, unless Lapis missed his guess, was an assassin; the shorter one, though exhausted at present from their journey, was undoubtedly a mage. 

::Well, dragon? I know how to measure the assassin. What’s the mage worth?:: Despite the curl of his lip and the lilt of his voice, the tone with which he directed the question at Lorith was solemn. For all her strangeness, something about this woman suggested that he ought to take her seriously. Perhaps it was the way she spoke, like she had considered every individual word for its apparent value before selecting it; perhaps it was in the intensity of her gaze or the way she held herself steady despite her fear.

::His weight in gold,:: comes the prompt answer. ::Like your visitor, he is capable of magic I cannot use. I may shield you from it, I could design spells to imitate it, but it would not be the same. If what she offers you is true ..:: Lapis can feel the dragon’s keen interest in his words; he clearly wants to take the woman’s words at face value, to find some compromise between the innate danger of the pair and their potential worth. This is no particular surprise to the Commander. The woman’s presence was a stark reminder that, given access to clean water and fresh clothing the shadow elven men could be visually striking, dark counterpoints to the paleness of Lapis and his kin. Lorith saw no shame in loving beautiful things, taking as much pleasure in paintings as he did in the attractiveness of certain members of the Commander’s Guard. 

“Yes,” Lapis says, his brief conversation with the dragon having taken bare seconds. He sees no reason to play anymore, to mince words or to be coy. Either she can offer this to him, the trustworthiness of her two companions, or he will have all three of them killed for the danger they pose to him and his people. 

What she sees of that in his eyes he does not know, but she stands as straight and as tall as she is able, nodding her head as if acknowledging his decision. “Good. And if I am to give this to you — a way to trust them — will you take them on as your men? They are exiles, and hunted, and to protect them I wish to give them a place and a people. Your reputation travels farther than I think you know, and if the hunters follow us this far they will hear your name and flee back to their homeland, never to return.” 

He raises one eyebrow at this mixture of warning and flattery; the two men had not spoken of being hunted but it certainly makes sense given their condition. It does leave him wondering what there could be that  _ could _ hound two such capable men. He cannot imagine that even a large hunting party would daunt them, not for long. But it does not change his answer to learn this, not when the burden of proof is so high. “Yes,” he says firmly, and holds up his free hand before she can speak again. “ _ If _ I can trust them completely, with my life and with my dragon’s, I’ll take them. Otherwise they’re less than useless and I’ll have them put down.” Now it’s his turn to catch her gaze and hold it, to keep his tone full of iron and the promise of blood. He has no time for mercy or compromise when he has an army to lead and kingdoms to conquer. 

“I have no fear of that,” she says, and ignores him when her complete confidence startles a short bark of laughter from him. “I intend to give you their greatest secret and their greatest weakness, one that will be yours and mine alone to keep. With it you can ensure their honesty and their obedience.” With a pause while he trails off into a chuckle, she looks at him with narrowed eyes. “I must cast a single spell. It will not be directed toward yourself, but will open a small gateway bridging a short distance. May I?” 

::Let her,:: the dragon says instantly in his thoughts, before Lapis can even give the request his full consideration. ::I’m watching and I can shut it down if she tries to bring anything dangerous through.:: A chill courses through Lapis, as if a cold wind has blown through the tent without touching anything else, and he knows it is the dragon strengthening the protections he has lain.

“Fine,” he says aloud, “do it. But if you try anything I’ll have you  _ and _ your men tortured before you’re all killed.” A touch of sharpness has entered his voice, brought about more by his irritation with his dragon than with her. Lorith’s eagerness is not a good sign. The dragon is wont to go behind his back and take what he wants whether or not his Rider thinks it wise; if the woman’s words prove untrue, it is looking likelier and likelier that he will need to be quick and clever to have them killed before the dragon can get to them. 

With a gracious nod she turns to one side and sweeps her arm through the air, a wave of darkness following the gesture. In less than a breath she has pulled the shadows into a large, loose oval, and once more he stiffens in shock. There had been no preparations, no words of power, no ritual or circle. Just a swell of magic and twisting of reality that silences even Lorith for a moment. But then she reaches into the darkness with one hand and leans in, and he can see no trace of her on the other side of it; he watches in mute stillness as she seems to grasp something and pulls it gently forward. 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but to see one of the two shadow elven men stumble forward out of the darkness and into the tent certainly was not on the list. It is the assassin, he thinks, although without his companion to compare him to it is hard to tell. Someone has cleaned him up so that he is no disgrace to the Commander’s finely appointed tent; the dirt and dust is gone, and his hurts either cleaned or bandaged as necessary. His hair has been washed also, pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck, and in the lamplight his skin has a surprising inner glow. There is much of his skin to see, marked liberally with scars, for the only clothing he has been given is a pair of thin trousers, worn and mended and tight to his lean body. 

More interestingly, his hands are behind him as if tied at the small of his back, and his piercingly dark eyes are covered by a thick blindfold tied over his face. He makes no sound but stands patiently to one side of the darkness while the woman reaches in a second time and pulls forth the mage, similarly attired. Neither says a word as the woman takes the darkness back into herself and neither seems the least disturbed to standing half-naked before the Commander, if indeed they even know where they are. Even Lapis, who has seen so much of the world that he considers himself jaded to its unpredictable cruelties, finds himself taken aback by the sight. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” he grits out, his teeth clenched and his irritation rising toward rage. As if sensing the danger the woman speaks up, pushing past the two men to look defiantly up at him. 

“They are  _ mine _ ,” she hisses up at him, eyes blazing. “They have been mine for a long time, so I have — trained them. This is the secret I give you, Commander. If they are blindfolded they will obey any order but one that causes me harm. I brought them here so that you could see for yourself, so that you could know that at any time, you can take them from the proud men that they are and turn them into this.” The fierceness seems to bleed out of her as she speaks and she draws back, reaching up to pet the mage on the cheek: Lapis watches incredulously as the man leans into her touch like a cat. Like most elves, the shadow elven men had struck him as proud to the point of arrogance, ignoring to the best of their ability their battered state. They had stood tall during their audience despite their injuries and had refused to beg for their lives. 

“And if I told them to get on their knees and suck my cock?” He didn’t bother to hide his skepticism, glancing back at the woman sharply. 

“They’d do it gladly.” The woman has relaxed now, as if this is a question she was expecting or even desiring and not the mockery he’d meant. Her hand falls from the mage’s cheek, drifting down his throat to linger on his chest, and the man shivers when she pinches one nipple and rolls it between finger and thumb. “In this state nothing pleases them better than to serve.” 

::Lorith.:: Some of the shocked anger is receding now, because neither has reacted to the sound of his voice or his crude suggestion, and it having been only hours since he sentenced them to death, they’d certainly remember it. ::Is this some kind of spell she’s cast on them? What the hell is going on?:: 

He can feel the hum of the dragon’s continued interest, and the almost innocent fascination with which Lorith views the scene is a potent reminder that he is — for all that Lapis loves him —  _ not _ elven in form or in mind. ::Very little magic is involved. The only thing I can read is a very minor spell of forgetfulness. It must be no more than she says; good training from an early age, like the hawks and the hounds your Beastmaster fields.::  

Trust the dragon to compare elves to dogs and birds, Lapis thinks. But then, some of the things that Lorith has said in the past have suggested that most dragons view the mortal races as just that: another species of animal, to be trained, hunted, or culled as necessary. 

“Mage,” Lapis says, and the shadow elf so named turns his head in the direction of the Commander like a flower to the sun. “Tell me your name.” 

“Averan.” The mage’s voice is hushed and low, just a touch hoarse. It sounds very little like the clipped, confident tones he’d used when he’d been dragged in front of Lapis earlier in the day. It sounds like the voice of a man left breathless with wanting.

“That’s not the name you gave me earlier.” This elicits no response and upon reviewing his own words Lapis realizes why. There hadn’t been a question or a command, and the depth of this stolid obedience makes his eyebrows raise again. “Tell me why."

“I give it to no one.” 

Even with the strangeness of the rest of the evening, Lapis finds his breath caught suddenly in his chest, a chill passing through his body that has nothing to do with Lorith’s magic. The enormity of it takes him suddenly and a long silence stretches taut between them, filled only with the distant sounds of the sleeping camp outside of his tent. 

“Averan is your true name?” He asks the question quietly, the weight of the words so heady that he finds himself shocked that he has spoken them at all. The shadow elves are quite foreign to him, it’s true: they are said to be a lush, immoral people, to build their homes in swamps, to know how to coax trees to grow in the shapes of buildings. There are rumors of dark rituals and obscene gods, tales of dragons so small that men cannot ride them, stories of men and women with teeth filed to points. However strange they might and might not be (Lapis is skeptical about much that bards sing of, having used bards to great effect himself), they are still  _ elves _ . And an elf gives no one their true name. 

“Yes,” says the mage, in the same hushed tone he has been using all along. Under pain of death he would never have given it over, but he has done it without hesitation or apparent regret, standing mostly naked in front of a man who condemned him to death. The breathlessness of that single word reminds Lapis suddenly of his own mocking question about just how far the two men would go and he feels his cock begin to wake. If they will give over their true names, what is there that they will not do? 

“You,” he says, a bit more sharply than he has spoken before. “Assassin. Give me your name.” 

“Aaran,” comes the response, and its similarity to the mage’s name makes him huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. Do they have no creativity, these shadow elves? Or is it simply coincidence that two men who look so much alike might prove to have such similar names? 

“Aaran,” he says, “come here. I want your mouth on my cock.” The broader of the two men takes a sudden quick breath, but wastes no time. He steps forward, feeling his way carefully so as not to run into anything, and then lowers himself down in front of Lapis with just as much care. Leaning forward, his lips first touch the ice elf’s bare hip, which he nuzzles; Lapis can feel the man’s breath ghost over his skin, a caress in and of itself. But he has no patience for the other elf to nose around seeking his cock; he takes Aaran by the hair, jerking his head back and lining his own cock up to the man’s mouth. Aaran seems to understand at once what’s needed and opens his mouth, so Lapis drags his head down, pushing him down on his cock so far and so fast that he very nearly gags. The idea that he is fucking a man who makes his living ending the lives of others one by one, by stealth and in secret, makes his cock swell, and the little noises that the shadow elf cannot quite make with the thick cock thrusting in and out of his mouth aren’t hurting, either. 

When he looks up again a moment later the mage is breathing shallowly, his cheeks flushed and cock visible through the thin drawers he is wearing. He cannot see what is happening through the blindfold, but apparently he has a good enough imagination to put images to the sounds he is hearing. Lapis grins even though neither shadow elf can see it and shifts his grip to hold Aaran’s ears as he fucks his mouth. “Your friend isn’t half bad at taking a cock,” he tells the mage, whose breath catches. “Are you wishing you were fucking him or is it my cock that you’re drooling over?” 

The mage licks his lips with a little shudder, and must visibly draw himself together before he can speak. “I want to be fucked,” he manages with breathless honesty, just short of begging. 

“Oh, so it doesn’t matter who fucks you so long as someone does?” Lapis snorts a laugh, but he doesn’t give Averan much time to answer. “Have your woman untie your hands, then go to the table beside the entrance of the tent. There is a dagger on it with a large pommel nut. If you’re so hungry to be used, you can fuck yourself with that.” 

Now that he has spoken of her, Lapis glances to the woman again — she has backed away from her charges and sits at her ease with her goblet of wine watching the proceedings with a benevolent satisfaction that somehow .. after everything else .. does not surprise him. “I am here, My Advocate,” she purrs, so that the blindfolded man might locate her by the sound of her voice, and he is not at all loath to present his bound wrists to her. She even helps him find the dagger in question, and when she goes so far as to push into his other hand a tiny glass bottle already uncorked, the ice elf does not bother to hide his amusement. 

“Sit on the rug,” he orders the mage, “with your legs spread so we can watch.” This command earns him a little groan and Averan hurries to obey, practically tearing off the last of his clothing and throwing himself to the ground with his legs spread indecently wide. While the mage spills oil carelessly over his fingers and begins to fuck himself to prepare the way for the hilt of the dagger, Lapis turns his gaze back to the woman. “Do you enjoy whoring out your lovers?” He finds himself genuinely curious, even as he feels the head of his cock hit the back of Aaran’s throat, and is fair pleased with how conversational his own voice is, while the two shadow elves are whining and groaning. 

The question makes the woman smile; she seems to take no offense from it. “I take great joy in anything that brings them pleasure.” 

“And they like being used like two-penny fucksluts?” He shoves Aaran off his cock so suddenly that the man falls, and he puts one foot to his shoulder before he can sit up. Now that he’s done so, he can see that like Averan, the assassin’s cock has grown painfully hard. It strains against the thin fabric and when Lapis prods at it with his foot the man actually whimpers. 

“Mm,” the woman’s voice seems to suggest agreement as she takes a deep swallow from the goblet. “Advocate,” she calls, and the mage flinches, cock twitching. “Tell the Commander about the moment when you knew Secretive returned your love.” 

This does not at all sound like something Lapis wants to hear and he sneers, leaning down to shove the assassin into the position he wants to see the man in, head down and ass up. 

“I was,” Averan starts, breathless still and with a bit of a panicked edge to his voice. “Sent on a mission. By a general I did not know wished me dead. I was to creep into the quarters of the wife of a wealthy human noble and steal a piece of enchanted jewelry.” He manages at this moment to get the pommel nut into his slick asshole and he tosses his head back, a whine escaping him. But he needs no reprimand; he continues even before he catches his breath. “Someone tipped her off,” he breathes. “When I. Got to the room she was waiting and her men seized me. Pushed me to the ground before her. I panicked. I knew. They meant to kill me. So I told her that I — I wasn’t a thief or killer. I was. I’d seen her from a distance. Fallen madly in love. Begged. I’d do. Anything to prove I loved her.” His hips roll, pre-cum decorating the head of his hard cock, and even as Lapis fucks Aaran’s hot mouth he can see Averan’s tight ass close around the hilt of the dagger as he fucks himself with it. 

“She. Bade me undress.” This is more like it, Lapis thinks, and he decides to allow Averan to continue. “I complied. Fell at her feet, kissed. Kissed her slippers. She. Told me to pleasure her guards. So I did.” 

When Lapis pushes into Aaran’s ass the shadow elf squirms and writhes, his bound hands making it impossible for him to brace himself at all. After several thrusts this proves unsatisfactory for Lapis as well even though the view is excellent. Leaning forward, he wraps his arms around the shorter elf and lifts him bodily, the movement causing Aaran to be pushed to the hilt onto his cock. Bearing the shadow elf’s weight with ease, he walks the man to the table and slides him onto it so that his upper body rests on the table, his legs dangling off the edge.  

“I wet their cocks with my mouth,” groans Averan, the dagger making a pleasant squelching sound as he thrusts it in and out of his own ass. “Let them fuck me. She — watched. I knew. That. As soon as I. Ceased to entertain her. She’d kill me. I begged her for more. Told her to use me. That I’d do. Anything for her. She laughed. Told me to stand in front of her. Nearly couldn’t. She. Had a guard bring her a crop from the stable. Fucked me with it,” and the words are hoarse, his hips coming off the ground as he pounds the dagger’s hilt into his ass, his cock twitching. “So that it’d be. Wet with the come that dripped from. From me. Then struck me with it until. Until my ass. Thighs. Stung.” He groans himself to breathlessness, grinding the hilt of the dagger into his ass: as large as the pommel-nut is, the hilt is perhaps not long enough to truly satisfy him. 

“Go on,” Lapis rasps, not slowing his own pace in the least: Aaran is making a noise almost like a sob, for the Commander’s thrusts are not at all gentle, and lying face down means that his own cock is trapped between his body and the wooden table. 

“My legs,” he manages. “Couldn’t stand. Her men held me up. When her arm tired, they turned me around. She touched the crop to my cock and. And I came,” he whispers hoarsely, in the tones of a confession. “She laughed. Said. That my cock proved my story. Told her men to take me to. To servants quarters. Use me. All of them. Carried me off. Tied me to — something.” He is panting now between the words, but the hilt of the dagger is clearly not enough, no matter how hard or how quickly he employs it. But he does not stop, either with the dagger or his shockingly lewd story. 

“Secretive found me,” the mage continues. “And. And when. He fucked me before he. Untied me.” Now Averan is truly mad for his release, barely able to get the words out. “I knew. Knew. Oh, gods. Wanted. Wanted to. To always be his.” 

Lapis hasn’t the breath to immediately comment on this revelation; he has taken a handful of Aaran’s hair and pulls on this with every thrust, so that the man’s head is pulled back, spine curved. When Lapis feels his cock begin to twitch a few thrusts later, he pulls out and grunts in satisfaction at the splatter of his come across the man’s broad back, liberally dotting the fine strands of his dark hair. After a moment to catch his breath, he wipes his cock clean with the shadow elf’s dark hair, then stretches in a leisurely fashion.

“Drop the dagger,” he calls over his shoulder even before he turns to look at the mage, and watches with a grin as Averan complies, making a thin whine of complaint as it slips out of his ass. But the entertainment value of watching him squirm only lasts until a yawn nearly cracks his jaw, the post-orgasmic lassitude combining with the weariness of a long day. “Woman,” he calls, fully aware that he never asked her name and not inclined to do so now. “Get them out of my tent.”

“And what of the morning?” She rises slowly, setting down the borrowed goblet, and moves to stroke Aaran’s hair, coaxing him up off the table with gentle care.

“I won’t have them killed,” Lapis mumbles with a careless wave in their direction. “Who knows? I’m sure I can find some use for shadow elven fighters who are also cockwhores.”

“Do you wish me to see to it that they do not remember the events of this meeting?” Her voice is smooth; the insult bothers her no more than any of the rest of what he’s done, and he actually looks back at her as he climbs back into bed. The question gives him a moment’s pause, but hadn’t Lorith said something about a spell of forgetfulness of some kind? The thought of looking them in the eye on the morrow, with neither of them aware that he knows their names, that he fucked the assassin mercilessly, that he watched the mage fuck himself, whimpering and wanting and spilling out a secret no one else knows about just how depraved he is —

“Do it,” he grunts. “Now get out.” He puts out the lamp and rolls over, his back to the three of them, and listens to the shuffling sounds in the dark as the woman collects her charges and departs, presumably the same way they arrived.

 


	3. Her Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a dragon comes calling and asks for advice, you give it to him. 
> 
> Anyway, if you look at it right, voyeur is kind of like a gateway drug to sex, right?

 

The cat that creeps into the tent just before dawn is no larger than any other half-wild granary cat, unnamed and ubiquitous, but no one could ever mistake this creature for any sort of working beast. Its fur is the pristine white of unblemished snow, long as a handspan in some places, complete with a gloriously full mane and a tail like a banner. Despite herself she very nearly smiles at such a failed attempt at deception; this creature is as completely out of place in the midst of an army as she had appeared the night prior. She doubts he realizes it: creatures like him have a hard time understanding the so-called lesser races, and their pride is such that they never even consider the fact that to be truly hidden they would have to lessen themselves. But no. One such as he would not dirty his coat just to dirty it, or disguise himself as a common tabby or in plain, ordinary grey. If he is to be a cat he will be a splendid one and congratulate himself at having thought of so inconspicuous a form.

After so long among the shadow elves, for whom lying and malicious subterfuge is both pastime and necessity, it is actually refreshing to deal with someone like the dragon and his Bonded Rider. There is so little guile to them! They are honest about their thoughts and opinions to the point of blunt arrogance, almost to a fault. Add in the White Wolf’s intelligence and the dragon’s power and they are a force to be reckoned with. It occurs to her as she watches him prance into the tent that she genuinely  _ likes _ them both, for all their flaws and the danger they pose. Interesting. Well, she’d had high hopes for this plan from the beginning. It’s good to know she’ll not despise these new masters.

The cat stops in the center of the tent, seating itself with the impressive plume of his tail wrapped around his feet. She knows the darkness of the unlit tent is no impediment to a cat’s eyes, and that he will be able to see that the two cots have been pushed together. The shadow elves lie together, boneless in sleep and tangled with each other, their unbound hair mingling into a loose curtain of midnight, individual strands indistinguishable. She lies beside them, comfortably nude, already propped up on one elbow. The cat’s direct gaze does not trouble her, but she takes care that her magic is kept firmly in check. She would have said once that her kind could not influence his, that they were too different from her usual prey, but she had felt his attention and his interest when the Commander had shoved Secretive to the floor and fucked him hard enough to make the assassin whine and whimper. 

“Hello, dragon.” She keeps her voice soft not for the sleeping elves, who will wake only when she allows it, but for the potential of long ears outside the flimsy walls of the tent. There are far too many elves in the immediate vicinity not to be careful.

“Hello, demon.” The voice is low and deep and yet musical still, and the cat’s mouth does not move to produce it. A projection? It is an impressive — and creative — use of magic. Young the dragon may be, he is already a powerful mage. She is suddenly more glad than ever that no part of her plan involved fighting him. A nod acknowledges the naming, the word he must have carefully avoided when describing her to his Rider, because Lapis had never used it. It is a loaded word and a dangerous one, a word that the White Wolf of the North would no doubt have had issue with if he’d heard it. 

When the silence begins to stretch out between them, she lets her hand fall to Secretive’s head, running her fingers through the silken strands. 

“Ask,” she tells him, aware that the only thing that could have brought the dragon here in disguise is curiosity .. and perhaps the awareness that there are questions he wishes to ask that he does not want his Rider to know the answers to. 

“You are not — typical,” he says finally, and she must once more suppress a smile. It is good to know that dragons are not that different from other races, that their young are just as predictable as those of elves or humans. This dragon  _ is _ young, much younger and perhaps more sheltered than his warlord Rider. That will make things much easier for her and, ultimately, for her charges. 

“You have met many demons?” She makes herself sound surprised, stilling her petting caresses of Secretive’s hair to look up at him. 

“ .. no,” admits the dragon with an irritated flip of his tail. “But the historical accounts are quite clear. Demons are rarely known for their intelligence, never for their foresight, and certainly not for their loyalty.” The words are very nearly accusatory and she isn’t sure whether he’s accusing her of not being a demon or of doing what she’s done for some ulterior motive. Maybe Lorith himself isn’t sure. 

“Tell me, has your magic always been so strong? I only ask because my kind does not often trouble yours. Was there a time when you were young when your power was much less than that of those around you?” She returns to stroking Secretive, who hasn’t so much as twitched (her heart swells with pleasure as she looks at him; he is hers so very thoroughly and it thrills her every time she thinks on it). 

“I’ve always been strong,” the dragon informs her loftily, although now the fluffy tail is ticking back and forth. With a rush of pleasure, she realizes that his mind is not so alien after all: the lie tastes different than it would out of a man’s mouth, but she can taste it all the same. He was small and afraid once, and it is not so long ago that he has yet been able to forget. “I’ve grown stronger as I’ve aged, but I come from a line of powerful mages.” 

“Ah,” she says, then continues without letting on that she has sensed his falsehood: “Well, then I will explain as best I can. When one  _ isn’t _ strong, when you are surrounded by those who are more powerful than you are, it’s necessary to rely on things other than force. You must be careful and exceedingly clever. And as demons go, I’m especially weak."

“But exceptionally clever?” Lorith’s tone has become wry, and it’s more quick-witted than she’d have expected from him. She grins, answering and accepting the compliment with a nod. 

“I plan because I must to survive. I’m loyal for the same reason — my loyalty to them inspires their devotion to me.” 

He considers this with care, the metered pace of his tail’s ticking slowing to a more thoughtful rhythm. For all his predictability so far she finds herself wishing that she could read the exact shape of his thoughts, but she does not dare spin her magic on him, not now and perhaps not ever.

“Do they know?”

The question is surprising enough that it stills her hand in truth. She had not thought that such a thing would occur to the dragon, that he would care one way or another about the free will of two insignificant (to him) shadow elves. So she takes care with her answer, examining each word in turn for its implications before she offers it to him.

“Know what? That I’ve spun magic on them? My Advocate would be a poor mage indeed if he didn’t, and my Secret a poor judge of character if he thought I would not do everything in my power to keep him and to keep the both of them safe.” Sliding her hand back into Secretive’s hair, she runs forefinger and thumb along the outer shell of his ear, tracing the familiar shape of it. This stirs him as her previous caresses did not; he murmurs in his sleep, but her touch becomes the counterpoint of a peaceful dream and he does not wake. “That I’ve trained them both to bow to my whims when their eyes are covered? Yes and no. My Secret knows; my Advocate does not. That I have sold them to the Wolf, your Rider? No. I have told them that I know of a way to ensure he trusts them, but that under no circumstance can they betray that trust."

This being a more prolonged speech than she is generally accustomed to, she draws in a slow breath and lets it out again, almost giddy. Outside of her meals, she does not often have contact with those other than her elves, and conversation? Never. It is strangely exhilarating to converse with someone who is not her bound summoner, to talk without knowing what the other is thinking. 

The dragon takes his time to digest her lengthy speech, wearing away at the words with the  _ tok, tok, tok _ of his white tail. He looks down at his paws as he thinks and she’s careful to look away before he can lift his gaze again. She focuses her gaze on the shadow elves instead, noticing with a smile that she is not the only one fond of the satin feel of Secretive’s hair. Advocate sleeps holding onto a full handful of it, hand curled into a loose fist. 

“They trust you,” he says finally, as if this is the point he has been chewing on all this time. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “They love me.” She watches him nod, as if this is what he had expected to hear, but he does not ask the obvious followup question. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear the answer. Or, it occurs to her suddenly, maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe his questions hadn’t been because he was worried about the shadow elves. Maybe he’d been worried about something else entirely. She remembers the faint pressure of his attention when she’d been standing in the Commander’s tent, and remembers too that she’d felt a hint of attraction. Perhaps the reason it had been only a hint hadn’t been because the dragon was so foreign. Perhaps it’d been because the attraction  _ hadn’t been for her _ . She wants to shout at the thought of it, to laugh out loud, to giggle, but she does none of these things. She lays quiet and mostly still on the cots, watching him solemnly. 

“He is your Rider,” she says into the thoughtful silence. “You know that he will always love you no matter what. He might even love you more.” All of this she says gently, even though she knows that there is no guarantee. Riders and their Dragons may be tied as tightly together as Fate will allow, but they are just as fallible as anyone else. It’s difficult to injure someone to whom your soul is bound but far from impossible. 

His gaze and attention snaps back to her, focusing outward again, and the soft plume of his tail fluffs in a moment’s agitation. Even with his ears back, even with full knowledge of what he is and what he can do, she can’t quite bring herself to fear him. His anger just makes him look endearing.  

“And what do you know of that, demon?” Despite his voice being no more than a projection, it comes out as a low hiss and she resists the urge to cross the room and bundle him up in her arms to press her face into his softness, to smooth the prickle from his fur.

“You know what I am,” she tells him patiently instead. “I know what men desire and I see within their hearts. That is the purpose for which I was made.” This is not wholly true. She had not dared to reach to see within the Commander, for to touch him would have been to influence him, and she knows that if the dragon had sensed her magic reaching for his Rider he would not have been circumspect in his treatment of her and her charges. But if all he knows of demons is what can be quoted from books, it is doubtful he knows just how her magic works. She wonders if he even knows that there are types of demons, or what type she is. “If you were to reach for him, I do not think he would pull away.” 

This causes the little cat to huff a breath entirely too deep and too loud for such a small creature, one ear flicking downward. “And do what, exactly? It’s not as if I could fly him.” Disdain has sharpened his voice, but there is a hint that his longing could — if the years passed without outlet — turn the emotion into despair. 

“A shape is not so permanent a thing for creatures of magic.” She knows there is a slight glow to her eyes now, the dark red of an ember left to die, but she cannot stop herself with this moment now upon her. It could be foolish to encourage this, for she knows less of the Commander than she’d like, but how can she resist? If the dragon succeeds it will tie him and his Rider even closer together and leave the dragon indebted to her besides. Oh, in truth she does it for greed’s sake, for greed and her hunger, but she can excuse herself on the basis that it will give the both of them a shared vulnerability she can exploit if there is ever need. 

“I have made some experiments on that score,” the dragon admits with a show of reluctance, holding out one paw to examine it critically. “It is not a magic my kind often use, so each spell must be created from its component parts.” His ears have risen again to sit as neat points, his earlier irritation cooled. If ever he has cared to disguise his emotions, which she doubts, he has not learned to do so in his current form. 

“You do very well,” she tells him, coloring her voice with approval. No need to explain to him how poor a job he’s done of disguising himself; let his Rider take that task should ever there be need for discretion. 

“The crafting of new spells has become a speciality of mine,” he boasts, bolstered by her praise, and fortunately for her does not seem to notice when the corners of her mouth twitch suspiciously. “But I don’t yet know what an elf would find .. desirable. You are skilled in the wants of men. Perhaps you would tell me if I’ve done well in crafting an elven shape?” He looks to her eagerly, and it comes to her with a start that  _ this _ and no other reason is why he has sought her out in the midnight darkness without the knowledge of his Rider. 

“I would not be unwilling,” she tells him gravely instead of collapsing into giddy delight, expecting him to tell her to meet him at some later date in some secret place. But hardly are the words out of her mouth before the little cat explodes into a shower of fine particles of snow, so thick she cannot see between them. The swirl of white grows to roughly the size of a full grown elf in the space of a second and it’s all she can do not to jerk back and wrap her elves in even tighter shields than before. A strong mage might shift themselves gracefully into a new form, expending some effort to ensure that a viewer does not see how ugly the process truly is. But never has she encountered a mage who can go from  _ one _ assumed form to a  _ second _ assumed form without first returning to their original shape in between. Her estimation of his abilities moves upward exponentially, and she reiterates her silent promise to betray neither dragon nor rider. 

The snow begins to settle so that first she sees only a shadowy silhouette; moment by moment the figure becomes more visible until there is only a scattering of melting snowflakes on the carpet to mark that the dragon had done anything at all. 

After a long, long moment, during which even the dragon begins to peer quizzically at her, she reaches out to touch her mage’s shoulder. The slight brush of her fingertips and a silent mental tug are enough to wake him, and Advocate lifts his head to blink groggily into the dim light filtered through the thin walls of the tent. He meets her gaze before he looks anywhere else, and for a moment the smile he wears becomes the whole of her world. Then she kisses him, and taking his chin in her hand, turns his head. Only then does he notice the pale figure standing in the center of the tent, his skin so smooth and white that he very nearly glows. Once more a silence falls and she cannot fault Advocate for it, even though the dragon has begun to frown at them both in impatience. When the shadow elf does speak, he must clear his throat to do so and his voice is rough and slow. 

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, his gaze tracing the smooth lines of the other man’s body with obvious interest. “Anything he wants, especially if there is lube.” The clear compliment in this reaction causes the dragon to stand straighter, his shoulders back and some of the irritation clearing from his expression. She does not know what he looks like as a dragon, but she finds herself agreeing with her mage in regards to his manshape. He has chosen to appear as an ice elf like his Rider, with pale skin and pale hair and eyes the same color as the cat’s — an endless deep sea blue. In every detail he is the epitome of that race, with ears swept up in graceful points, a sculpted face, and hair that seems to catch the light like a prism, as if it is not truly white but somehow crystalline. The definition of his muscles seems almost an artistic liberty, for no man could truly be so well-formed; she can feel the slow pulse of Advocate’s desire, how he wants to leave bite marks on those too-perfect abs and bruises on his hips. Despite his appearance he is taller than a pure-line ice elf ought to be, but so is the Commander, and she very much suspects that the dragon has crafted his self to be just a little taller than his Rider just because he can. 

“No,” she warns her mage, then quickly amends it to, “not yet. He is here for advice, not to service you.” She keeps her voice stern, and although her tone is chiding he grins in response to her indulgent smile. Not being inclined to wait any longer, the dragon speaks up and Advocate's brows disappear up into his disheveled hair. The voice is instantly arresting: unexpectedly deep, given the softness of his face, but underlain with a musical tone that sits on the very edge of one's hearing, too far distant to place the note. 

"I take it I have done well, crafting an appealing shape?" He sounds both pleased and confident, although the way his blue eyes dart back and forth between them suggest he is still seeking some measure of reassurance. 

"I would grovel if I thought it would get me anywhere," Advocate tells him with an amiable smile, speaking up without prompting. He's accustomed to speaking for her in the presence of strangers, and she wonders if the dragon realizes that despite how she has ceded the conversation, his very words acknowledge her authority over his behavior. Very few people do: it's the mage that summons the demon, isn't it? And if the mage isn't in complete control, he's dead - that's just how it works. 

This plainly pleases the porcelain man, who seems to preen for a moment in the glow of such a compliment before quickly deciding it is only his due. He returns his attention to Advocate more directly and gestures toward his companion, who sleeps on. 

“Awaken the assassin, then,” the dragon demands. “I would have his opinion as well.” 

Although momentarily taken aback, Advocate is quick to shake his head in gentle refusal, and she can see the exact moment that her mage realizes who it is that commands him. Other than the soldiers who collected them and those lucky few who sneered at them as their leader condemned them to death, the shadow elves have been seen by relatively few people in the camp, none of them mage-talented that Advocate could sense. So who is there that would know of their existence and yet possess power enough to talk of his body as ‘an appealingly crafted shape?’ She does not even need to warn him, for he realizes on his own that he must tread carefully here. 

“I’m afraid that would be unwise,” he says at his most apologetic. “As lovers go, he is extraordinarily jealous. Your breath-taking loveliness would work against us both, and I fear he’d attack you on sight just for being so close.”

The dragon absorbs this without immediate insult, looking closely at the sleeping Secretive as if trying to see what it is that makes him so dangerous. But after a long moment’s thought he seems to understand, and to both Advocate and the demon’s surprise he nods gravely. “I can understand. There have been times when I have disliked others for a similar cause. I’ll take your word that I’ve done well.” 

“Thank you.” Advocate’s tone has softened and he puts a small smile with the words. The dragon could easily have forced the issue, even if he thought disaster would result, and Advocate is relieved that he hasn’t. At the very least Secretive would want to know what the shit is going on, and frankly the mage has no idea. “May I offer you some advice then, if you will? Since it is that which you came here for.” He actually waits for permission, which the dragon gives with a surprised nod. Maybe he hadn’t expected Advocate to be so courteous or that there could be any advice  _ to _ give. 

“You wish to — impress — your Rider, do you not?” Advocate tilts his head, accepts another nod in return, and continues. “Such a seduction is very different from any other. Unlike when you bed .. well,  _ anyone _ , you are Bound to your Rider by heart and soul. As you proceed,  _ listen _ . You will hear before ever he voices it whether he enjoys a touch here, a kiss there. You will be able to feel an echo of his pleasures, and yes, an echo of his pains. This will tell you without words what he desires and how he desires to receive it.” 

“How do you —“ The dragon sounds startled now, perhaps to find that the advice he has been given is not just platitudes or teasing. It’s ..  _ good _ , sound advice, something that he’s definitely going to be thinking about when he approaches his Rider. And this scrawny little scrap of a shadow-elf who looks like a doll that’s seen better days gave it to him! 

 

The mage does not allow himself to be questioned; he regards their guest with a steady gaze, wearing seriousness briefly for all that one corner of his mouth curls upward with a hint of smug certainty. Advocate feels a little trill of amusement from his demon beside him, but when he glances at her she has managed by great effort to keep her expression appropriately serious. 

“Yes,” Lorith says finally, although his curiosity is eating at him now and he is staring openly at Advocate and Secretive and even the demoness, as if he could read upon their skin how they came to be. “You have my thanks.” He gives himself a shake and then with another rush of snow the man becomes the small cat, and Advocate’s eyebrows revisit his hairline again at this show of power. But he recovers quickly, so that before the little cat can slip out of the tent, he clears his throat and calls after him. 

“Oh, and dragon?” The cat stops and glances back, ears tilted toward the mage in silent question. “Don’t forget lubricant. I do not recommend initiating anything without something very close at hand.” 

The cat’s ears go back towards its skull: it stares at Advocate for one frozen moment and then it is gone, with no further comment than an irritated flick of its tail.

 


	4. Her Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes what you really need to unwind is a little tough love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look more tags I forgot to add.

“You’re late.” She keeps her voice sharp, unforgiving, because she knows the imperious tone will cut like a knife through his weariness and distraction. Whether it angers or arouses him does not matter; what matters is that he wakes to emotion of some kind. As he steps into the tent, bringing a breath of cool breeze with him, his head snaps up and his gaze fixes on her. She feels the quick, heady pulse of his desire and stretches slowly, luxuriating in the feeling of his eyes moving across her body.

In truth, there is little of  _ her _ body to see; most of what is visible is Advocate. She sits patiently on their oh-so-sturdy double-sized cot, legs slightly spread to accommodate his body. The mage sits awkwardly across her lap, one foot to either side of her, knees bent so that his legs form an uncomfortable looking letter ‘M.’ Despite the strain he still manages to keep himself upright, legs spread, aided somewhat by the tight grip of her hands on his thighs. From across the room, she knows that Secretive will be able to see how tightly she grips the other man, that her hands are digging into his flesh in a way that will probably leave bruises. She knows he can also see the unnatural cock that sits up between  _ her _ legs, long and thick, on which Advocate has impaled himself. The mage has clearly been there for some time, fucking himself on her magically crafted erection, and now his legs tremble with strain. His own cock is painfully hard, dripping with pre-come, and as Secretive looks at him, he takes a shuddering breath and does his best to try and push down on her cock one more time.

Effort has clearly been made to present Secretive with a glorious tableau. There is his throbbing cock; his ass straining around  _ her _ cock (and isn’t that delicious), there are his nipples, pink and swollen, with obvious bite marks around them. His hair is braided so that it cannot cover his body and the light from several lamps dances across his bare skin, highlighting and hiding his scars by turns. She has worked to ensure that by the time Secretive arrives the mage is at that perfect point of wordless incoherence, desperate and needy and inclined to comply with even the slightest suggestion if that means he will be allowed to come. All of it has been carefully calculated so that when Secretive arrives in his leather and armor, smelling of the dust of the road, of sweat and hard work, his pants are suddenly going to seem several sizes too tight.

Before he can do much more than stare, she makes an irritated noise (even though all she feels is a smug pleasure) and tosses her head. “Don’t just stand there. Get over here and suck his cock.” Still her voice is sharp — she licks her lips when he flinches, startling from his thoughts, and is both surprised and amused when he takes the time to tie the tent flap closed before he complies. But he  _ does _ comply, which is all she cares about, and he does seem to understand the urgency of the demand. He knows the rules for when she is in a mood like this one almost as well as Advocate does, which is gratifying. He does not try to undress or touch himself; he doesn’t even disarm. He  _ does _ open his mouth to talk back, which is something she will punish him for later.

“You knew when I was coming back,” he complains as he crosses the tent. “You could have waited for me.” But he drops to his knees as she has bid him, cupping one gloved hand around the mage’s balls and the base of his cock to steady him before dipping his head down. The suddenness of it tears a ragged gasp from Advocate, who slips a little and finds himself lowered rather more quickly than he intended onto Lynaith’s cock because of it. She gives his legs a pleased little squeeze, enjoying the breathless whine this causes him to make.

“Good boys,” she tells them in a low croon, hooking her chin over Advocate’s shoulder so she can watch Secretive work his cock. It’s a handsome sight — Advocate already completely wrecked, skin shining with sweat in the lamplight, while Secretive has just come off the field and is still in his armor. Lust pulses in Secretive like a banked fire, his growing erection becoming almost painful where it lies trapped beneath stiff leather. Once Secretive has begun to work in earnest, head bobbing, she reaches out with one hand for a fistful of his hair and pulls it: the tight tug meant to pull him down harder onto Advocate’s cock so that he can barely back up off of it. The pain will give his lust a sharper edge, will make his toes curl in his heavy boots.

Conversationally, watching them both with indulgent pleasure, she says: “He’s watching again.” Advocate gasps, his cock twitching in Secretive’s mouth. She knows he loves it, loves even the slightest  _ thought _ of it. The dragon spying on them while they fuck, engaged in depraved activities worlds beyond what anyone around them would consider normal. It had happened once or twice when they first joined the ice elf’s army, perhaps driven by idle curiosity or a simple desire to see if they were what they seemed — refugees, exiles from their people. At the time, Advocate had allowed the spying to take place, from the feel of the magic recognizing instantly who the spy had been. But after he had inadvertently caught Advocate fucking Secretive practically into the ground one night, Lynaith had insisted that her mage build their shields with a deliberate loophole that would allow the dragon to see what he wished  _ whenever _ he wished.

“Do you think we’re giving him ideas?” She keeps her voice low, thoughtful and otherwise unmoved by the fact that every word causes Advocate’s ass to clench around her temporary cock. “Do you think he’s going to test them out on his rider? Hmm?” Reaching up, she puts her hand on the back of Secretive’s head and pushes him down hard, giving him as much of Advocate’s cock as he can take. “I think you like it,” she whispers, finally sounding just a little hoarse. “I think you like looking at your commander and wondering if his ass is as sore as yours.”

The mage makes a helpless little sound, choked by breathlessness, and comes down Secretive’s throat. The other man wears a look of concentration, eyes mostly closed, head tilted slightly back. It will be difficult for him to swallow every drop — but he doesn’t dare miss any, doesn’t dare let Advocate’s come dribble out of his mouth and onto his armor. Lynaith watches him critically, feeling her mage’s orgasm as a pleasant rush of heated magic, and smiles in satisfaction when several fat drops escape Secretive’s lips. Good. More to punish him for. She lets go of Secretive, allowing him to lean back, lapping the length of Advocate’s softened cock to clean it as he goes. The whimpering sound Advocate makes causes the other man to shudder, and by now his erection  _ is _ painful, trapped as it is.

But she doesn’t address it, not yet. Let him sit and stew. Instead, exerting a touch of her own inhuman strength, she lifts Advocate easily up off her cock and turns, pushing him face first onto the cot. Turning her back on Secretive, she lifts Advocate by the hips and returns her cock to his ass, pumping hard and fast until, with a pleased murmur, she comes as well. When she pulls free she does it slowly, so that she can see his ass gaping from the size of her still-erect cock, the last spurts of come falling across the slightly stretched opening. He lies where she has left him, sprawled on the cot with his ass up, come dripping down his thighs.

Pleased, she turns around to her next victim only to find that during her distraction Secretive has begun to undress. His weapons have been put aside and most of his armor is haphazardly set on the rack designed for that purpose; he is down to his tunic and leggings, hurriedly removing his shin guards even as she frowns with disapproval.

“Did I say that you could undress?” Her voice is not so immediately cutting this time; she flavors it with disappointment and a touch of eagerness, because she had wanted to punish them tonight. She made  _ plans _ . He must understand the implication in her tone because he flinches and she can see his cock twitch through the fabric of his leggings.

“No,” he offers, with what he probably hopes is a charming grin. It is, but it is not nearly charming enough to make her change her mind about what she has in store for him tonight. “But you didn’t say that I  _ couldn’t _ undress.” He drops his shin guards by the rest of his armor and pauses, likely to try and gauge if he can get away with taking off the rest of his clothing before she retaliates. Even better, she thinks: he’s already anticipating her punishment. She knows he wants it, knows that he loves being treated this way sometimes almost as much as she loves doing it.

“You knew better,” she tells him sternly, which is perfectly true. “You knew you needed to wait for my commands and you didn’t. Clearly you need to be reminded why it’s better to behave. Since you’ve already started, you might as well finish undressing. In case you have forgotten my other little rules, you are not to touch yourself until I give you permission. If you do, your punishment will be much,  _ much _ worse.” She strokes herself with one hand as she speaks, her own cock hard and shining; a small white droplet of liquid squeezes out of the tip, and she watches as his gaze fixes upon it and follows it to the ground. Then he comes back to himself, blinking and flushed, and in his hurry to get undressed nearly tears his leggings.

She waits until he is occupied with struggling to get out of them and then steps lightly forward, plucking a scrap of shadow from the air as she moves. With one little twist, she has flung it around his head — she can feel his thoughts, his wants, can see what he is imagining and what he is wanting. As the cloth falls over his eyes and ties itself into a tight knot, she can see those images drop away one by one: until there is only the wanting itself, only the awareness of his own cock and her presence. A curse that had started in his throat dies there, and he teeters unbalanced, his body wanting to completely relax even while his leggings are still tangled around one foot. She puts her hand on his shoulder to steady him and with a happy little hum guides him out of the errant piece of clothing. “There now,” she murmurs, drawing him forward and pulling him down so that he settles first onto his knees, then onto all fours on the floor of the tent. It is not a comfortable position, she knows; although the rug stretched the length of the tent is thick, it isn’t nearly thick enough to prevent him from feeling the hardness of the ground beneath it.

But she didn’t blindfold him to  _ please _ him. He’s been so very deliciously bad. He deserves to be punished, doesn’t he? He  _ wants _ to be punished.

Leaning down, she kisses the top of his head and pats his hair tenderly, enjoying how patiently he waits for her instruction. It is so pleasant to play with such an obedient toy, so pleasant to have him for herself instead of ceding to Advocate. She does not do this often, but every now and then the mood hits her and she finds that she cannot resist using them in this way, as if the two of them are not just lovers but toys made to dance to her pleasure. Molding shadow in her delicate hands, she sits on the small of his back and ignores his soft grunt of surprise at her sudden weight. She waits until he has braced himself before she begins, rubbing his ass with the point of what looks like a grey glass plug, slick with some unknown substance. It is not that thick; a good beginner’s toy, because it’s been a few weeks since they’ve been able to get him like this. He’s gotten good at avoiding the blindfold, sometimes moving too quickly, sometimes distracting Advocate before he can employ it. Maybe this will teach him a lesson about trying to get out of being fucked: she’s been saving up all her little ideas for weeks now and she doesn’t intend to waste a single one of them.

In the toy goes: she listens, but he makes only a soft noise, quickly swallowed. She pumps it in and out of him, enjoying the sight of his ass squeezing the smooth surface: open for an instant when she pulls it free, then puckering closed just before she pushes it in again. Shifting her weight more comfortably, she remains seated on his back, her own cock lying heavy just above his ass where he can feel the weight of it, the dampness from where she’d fucked Advocate. She fucks him leisurely with the toy until his body takes it readily and then with a whisper of magic she increases both the size and the length of it; it is not just one bulb now but two, the second thicker than the other.

This earns her a grunt and she slaps his ass at the sound, licking her lips. “Quiet. I’m busy.” He swallows: she can hear him bottle up the noise and the restlessness and try to lock it away for all the good that will do him. She knows his cock is twitching,  _ throbbing _ in response to her gentle abuse of his body, and she is determined to ruin even his well-trained control.

Another surge of magic adds a third protrusion to what is quickly becoming a much more formidable toy; it resembles a large stick with a teardrop shaped bulb on one end, accented by rounded bulges and ending in a short handle. She fucks him with it until she can see the tension building in his arms, the strain of supporting her, of staying still, of staying quiet. As active as he is in his day to day life, she suspects his muscles will still ache come morning and each twinge will remind him that he gave his ass up to her willingly. When she can feel the fine tremble in his arms she stops, leaving the toy where it is deep inside his ass. The third and largest bulb will keep it in place unless he should force it out — and now that he is blindfolded, disobedience will not cross his mind.

Stretching slowly and luxuriating in the languid pulse of Advocate’s attraction, she stands. She glances at the mage where he still lies on the bed, showing no inclination to rise; she can feel him in her thoughts, a warm flush of drowsy contentment. He is wise enough to know when she is in a mood and wiser still to understand that once it is over she will curl up on the cot between them so that they can sleep together, well-fucked, well-loved, and content.

“Secret,” she says, without looking down at him where he waits on all fours, panting with relief as his arms stop trembling. “Crawl to the cot and suck your lover’s cock. Hold him down if you need to.” The order clearly takes the mage by surprise, the widening of his eyes marking a shift from languid to alarmed; so soon after having been fucked near to senselessness, he is likely to be somewhere beyond sensitive. Holding him down might actually be necessary.

But while Advocate is looking at her as if to ascertain whether or not she’s serious about the command and evaluating his options as to a possible escape, Secretive is already moving. There simply isn’t that much of the tent so he is quickly within reach, hitting the cot with his shoulder and sitting up to grope across the blankets for some sign of the mage. Sitting up drags a little whimper from Secretive’s lips at the way the toy shifts inside of him, but he neither stops nor slows down.

She watches with pleasure as he manages to get ahold of one of Advocate’s legs before he can scramble out of reach, and even in his complacent state Secretive is more than strong enough to drag him closer no matter how the mage struggles. The slighter man curses, but even bracing one foot on Secretive’s shoulder to push him back does no good: Secretive simply reaches up with his free hand and squeezes the other man’s limp cock firmly enough that Advocate’s knees bend quite against his will. Before he can regain use of any of his limbs he has been pulled to the edge of the bed, his legs over either of the other man’s shoulders, and Secretive is dipping his mouth eagerly down over Advocate’s cock. The blindfolded man seems to enjoy the work even though Advocate is panting and writhing, biting the back of his own hand to try and stay quiet.

Once they are fully engrossed in the activity she approaches leisurely and reaching down pulls the toy slowly from Secretive’s ass. When his head starts to lift, as if to give him the breath to make a noise in surprise, she pushes it back down until his nose touches the other man’s abdomen and both men squirm in complaint. But she keeps it there, ignoring the gasps and groans Advocate is making at being so fully swallowed and the insistent little complaints just barely audible from Secretive. Only once the toy is out (Secretive’s asshole briefly stretched, opened wonderfully by the wide bulbs) does she relent and allow him to breathe.

Rubbing the pink edges of his asshole, she hooks a finger into him and pulls, stretching him back open. She snatches from the shadows a bottle of oil so chilled that bringing it into the open air causes condensation to dew on the sides of the darkened glass and uses her teeth to pull the cork from it. The sound Secretive makes when she sticks the opening into his asshole and tilts the whole bottle up is extremely gratifying, but he has learned his lesson well. He does not try to come up off of Advocate’s cock this time, but he makes a thin whine around it, rising steadily in pitch and volume. When she has poured a good measure of the liquid inside of him so that it dribbles down his inner thighs, she returns the bottle to its place and steps behind him. After only a moment to admire the sight, she removes her finger and pushes her cock directly into his ass, not in the least troubled by the chilled flesh she finds inside of him.

It’s kind of a thrill, actually, to thrust up into him and feel the warmth of her body warming him from the inside out. It’s even more enthralling to feel him struggle as she impales him, to watch Advocate try and fail to cry out, the breath completely knocked out of him by whatever Secretive is doing with his mouth. She does not linger inside of Secretive but begins to fuck him lazily, thrusting hard and deep. He holds onto the cot with one hand, his grip white-knuckled; the other arm remains curled around Advocate as he attempts to keep himself steady. If he is not careful, a hard enough thrust could either choke him or cause the mage actual injury — so he will have to pay attention despite the way it feels like she is about to split him completely in two.

“Good boys,” she tells them, as they groan and whimper and whine, and then “Shh, it’s okay,” as they run out of breath completely when she increases her pace. By the time she is snapping her hips into Secretive, fucking him hard enough that the tent is full of the loud slap of her flesh against his, Advocate’s eyes are watering with something on the very edge of pain. She thinks he might be begging her, but he can hardly speak at this stage and Secretive certainly can’t. With one last powerful thrust, she comes deep inside of him and then leans forward, wrapping one hand around her sweet Secret’s painfully hard length.

“Come for me, my gorgeous little cock-slut,” she whispers to him in a hoarse voice and he does, spilling his seed in thick spurts as she strokes him. Only once he is done does she lean back, sliding out of his ass with a sigh of contentment: he dribbles come and oil, asshole slow to close back to its normal puckered state.

Nothing could be more perfect, she thinks, reaching out to grab him by the hair and pull him off her mage’s cock. Advocate is still soft — she’d have been irritated with herself, if he’d been able to get it up after all that she’d done to him before Secretive’s arrival — and he reacts to the departure of the other man’s mouth with something like dazed relief. He does not even react when she strokes his inner thigh, bruised by Secretive’s grip: he just lies where he has been left, eyes mostly closed, gulping in air.

“Get a damp cloth and clean us off.” Difficult for Secretive but not impossible: he knows where things are generally kept in their tents, and should be able to find both cloth and water even with the blindfold. “Once we are all clean, you may remove the blindfold and come to bed.” This is a bit cruel of her, but she wants him to be facing her when he removes the blindfold, when he stands blinking in the lamplight and realizes what he’s been made to do this time. She savors those moments possibly more than Advocate does: when awareness slowly dawns on him, when he comes back to himself, back to a throbbing ass and a spent cock, legs weak from the force of his own orgasm. When he knows beyond a doubt that he has been used and degraded and that he  _ enjoyed _ it, that it was some of the best sex he’d ever had. The sound of his curses, of his promises to never let it happen again, to fuck them both until they’re raw, all of it is music to her ears.

The very  _ best _ part, she thinks, as she sinks down beside her mage and runs her fingers lovingly through his hair, is how Secretive still gets back into bed with them afterward, even when he remembers. Even when his ass is still leaking lube and come, even when his mouth tastes like Advocate’s cock, he will still crawl underneath the covers with them, limbs tangling loosely together, body slowly going limp as he gives himself over to sleep.

It is incredible how much he trusts them, a depth of emotion matched only by how much they love him.

She glances up to see that Advocate has managed to curl up on his side; he watches through half-closed eyes, a smile at the corner of his mouth, and his drowsy pleasure inspires a rush of fondness. Demon she may be, but she is flawed, broken beyond measure, for she loves this man with a dangerous possessiveness that none of her kind have ever been able to understand. Who else would have been clever enough to even come up with what he had done to Secretive? Who else would have been cruel enough to wait for their off-and-on lover to take ill, and then use that weakness of body to instill within him a weakness of will that could be exploited at his whim with no greater tool than a short length of cloth?

They are perfect, her Advocate, her Secretive, and whispering their secrets to the White Wolf is the least of what she would do to protect them.  


End file.
